The Cat Who Knew A Cardinal

-3-

Returning home from Tipsy's restaurant Sunday night, Qwilleran stepped on a small object in the foyer and kicked another one in front of the schrank. A third turned up under a rug. They were metal engravings mounted on wooden blocks - printing memorabilia that he had started to collect. In embarking on a new hobby, he had also provided a pastime for the Siamese: stealing typeblocks from the typecase where they were displayed. This time they had filched small cuts of a fish, a rabbit, and a rooster. Either the subject matter was appealing, or the blocks were the right size for a playful paw.

As Qwilleran entered the barn, the light on his answering machine was flashing, and he pressed the button to hear a brief recorded message from Polly: "Qwill, I arrived home from Lockmaster later than I planned. Don't call me back tonight. I'm very tired, and I'm going to bed early."

There were no intimate expressions of affection included in the message; Polly, he concluded, must be very tired, indeed. After brunch at the Palomino Paddock what else had she been doing?

He himself felt in high gear despite his fifteen minutes of sleep the night before. He was stimulated by the puzzle confronting Chief Brodie, although he had no intention of meddling in the case. His friend would not appreciate suggestions from an amateur investigator. While working the police beat Down Below Qwilleran had written a book on urban crime, now out of print, but it hardly entitled him to advise a pro like Brodie.

He prepared a cup of coffee and carried it to a comfortable chair, propping his feet on an ottoman. Yum Yum promptly took possession of his lap, and Koko assumed an attentive position at his feet. They were ready for some quality time.

"Well," he began, "what we have here is the kind of criminal case that is solved immediately - or never. What's your guess?"

Koko blinked his eyes, a signal that Qwilleran interpreted as "no opinion." Cats, he recalled, were never interested in generalities.

"I don't buy the theory that it was an inside job," he went on, grooming his moustache, "although I don't know why I feel that way. If Brodie expends too much time and effort in hounding the members of the club, he's wasting his time."

"Yow," said Koko.

"I'm glad you agree. The one individual he should be investigating is the victim himself. Who was he - really? Where did he get a name like Hilary VanBrook? We know he came here from Lockmaster, but where did he operate before that? He was obviously not a native of the north country, so why did this brilliant man with a cosmopolitan background and impressive credentials choose to live in the outback? Where did he disappear on weekends? Why did he need that large house on Goodwinter Boulevard?"

Qwilleran had forgotten that he himself was indirectly responsible for bringing the principal to Pickax. Four years before - four long and eventful years - Qwilleran had arrived in Moose County as the reluctant heir to the Klingenschoen fortune, reluctant because he had no desire for wealth. He was a dedicated journalist who.enjoyed hacking a living on the crime beat. He was content with a one-room apartment, no car, and a meagre wardrobe that packed in a jiffy when his newspaper sent him off on assignment. Finding himself suddenly encumbered with millions - yet with no interest in financial matters - he solved the problem very simply: He established the Klingenschoen Memorial Fund to give the money away. Immediately a board of trustees started awarding grants, scholarships, and loans to benefit the community.

In direst need, it so happened, was the local school system, known to operate on the lowest per - pupil expenditure in the state. As the Klingenschoen Fund poured money into school facilities and teacher salaries, this cornucopia of largesse gave superintendent Lyle Compton an idea: Money might lure the celebrated Hilary Van Brook away from Lockmaster High School where he had accomplished wonders in a few years. Although Lockmaster considered Moose County a primitive wilderness populated by savages who could not even win a football game, VanBrook accepted the Pickax challenge - and the lucrative contract. Under his leadership the Pickax high school earned accreditation, the curriculum was expanded, and more graduates went on to college. Although the athletic teams did no better, faculty and parents considered the new principal a miracle-worker - while loathing his overweening personality and heartless policies.

A few months before his murder VanBrook wrote a typically curt and scornful letter to the Theatre Club, proposing a Shakespeare production as a change from the light comedies, musicals, and mysteries favored by local audiences. He volunteered to direct it himself. The play he proposed was The Famous History of the Life of King Henry the Eighth, and the officers of the Theatre Club uttered a unanimous groan.

Carol Lanspeak called Qwilleran for his opinion. "I'm consulting you," she said, "because the K Fund may have to bail us out if it's a flop. No one likes the idea, and yet Horseface has a reputation as a no-fail genius. We're asking him to meet with our board of directors for further discussion, and we're inviting you to audit the meeting. You can bring your tape recorder if you wish; it might make a subject for the 'Qwill Pen' column - that is, if we decide to cut our throats."

It was a dinner meeting held in a private room at the New Pickax Hotel, built in 1935, the year its predecessor burned down. After a dinner of meatloaf and scalloped potatoes (the hotel was not noted for its imaginative cuisine), the board waited for the guest of honor to arrive. VanBrook had declined to join them for dinner, a pointedly unfriendly gesture. When he finally arrived - late, without apology - Carol called the meeting to order and invited the principal to elucidate on his proposal. As if the board were composed of illiterates, he responded by reading a copy of the same letter he had mailed to them, spitting out the phrases with obvious disdain.

Qwilleran heard someone whisper, "Isn't he a pill?" Yet, the man had a rich, well-modulated voice; it was easy to believe he had been a professional actor. The principal finished reading and rolled his eyes at the walls and ceiling.

Officers and board members exchanged looks of dismay. The first to find nerve enough to speak was Scott Gippel, car dealer and treasurer of the club, whose girth was so enormous that he required two chairs. "The public won't go for that heavy stuff," he said.

Carol Lanspeak spoke up. "Since receiving Mr. VanBrook's letter I've read the play twice, and I regret to say that I. can't find a single memorable or quotable line except the first one: I come no more to make you laugh."

"That's when half the audience gets up and walks out," said Gippel good- naturedly, his not-too-solid flesh quivering with mirth over his own quip.

The chairman of the play - reading committee, a retired teacher of English, commented, "Mr. VanBrook has a point; it's time we attempted Shakespeare, but is this the right play for us? There is even some doubt that Shakespeare wrote Henry VIII. It reads - if you will pardon my candor - as if it were written by a committee."

Qwilleran stole a look at VanBrook, who was listening in supercilious silence, gazing at the ceiling and rolling his eyes as if searching for cracks in the plaster.

Fran Brodie said, "I'd like to make another objection. Henry VIII calls for a large cast, and we have limited space backstage and very few dressing rooms. The theatre was not designed for large productions."

"The cost of all those costumes will be prohibitive," Gippel added.

"And there are so few roles for women," Carol objected.

"If you ask me, it's too dull and too long," said Junior Goodwinter, the young managing editor of the Moose County Something. "And the last scene is a let- down, like the last half of the ninth in a 14-0 ballgame."

VanBrook rose to his feet. "May I speak?"

"Of course. Please do," said Carol with an artificial smile. She frowned at her husband, who had not opened his mouth during the objections. As president of the board of education he had helped convince VanBrook to leave Lockmaster, and he joined Lyle Compton in humoring the principal - who was doing so much good, and who was known to be temperamental, and whose contract was coming up for renewal. If Van Brook failed to sign again, he would undoubtedly return to the Lockmaster school system, and the good folk of Pickax would be left drowning in chagrin.

In a condescending manner VanBrook began. "Henry VIII is no longer than Romeo and Juliet, and it is shorter by far than Hamlet and Richard III. So much for too long." He darted a contemptuous glance at the editor. "As for too dull, the play has been captivating audiences for three centuries with its color and pageantry. Furthermore, it addresses such contemporary concerns as corruption, greed, power politics, and the abuse of women. As a morality play it deplores the vain pomp and glory of this world... Is everyone still with me?" His listeners wriggled uncomfortably, and he went on. "You say there are too few roles for women, and yet one of the strongest roles Shakespeare ever wrote for a woman is Katharine of Aragon, Queen of England. Anne Boleyn is another coveted role, and even the Old Lady is a small gem of a part. For those who fancy themselves in period costumes there are plenty of ladies-in-waiting sweeping on and off the stage. And if you think Henry VIII lacks great scenes, let me draw your attention to Buckingham's arrest, his unjust condemnation as a traitor, the roisterous party that King Henry crashes in disguise, the queen's court trial, her later confrontation with Cardinal Wolsey, Wolsey's repentant leave-taking, the coronation of Queen Anne, and the. heart- rending death of Katharine."

He flashed a triumphant glance around the conference room and continued. "It so happens that I have staged this play before, and there are certain techniques that can be employed - notably the use of students as supernumeraries, to be costumed at the school and transported to the theatre in school buses. The Klingenschoen garage at the rear of the theatre can provide dressing rooms for actors playing small roles and making infrequent entrances."

Qwilleran thought, Wait a minute, bub! I'm still living in the garage!

"As for the final scene," VanBrook said, "this purely political indulgence was tacked on to Hatter the monarchy, and let me assure you that it will be omitted. Henry VIII will end with Katharine's death scene, which has been called the glory of the play."

Everyone was silent until Carol said, "Thank you, Mr. VanBrook, for your enlightening explanation... Shall we make a decision now?" she asked the board. "Or do we need time to mull it over?"

Larry spoke up for the first time. "I move that we mount Henry VIII as our first fall show."

Fran Brodie seconded the motion. "Let's take a gamble on it," she said, and Qwilleran could imagine visions of Queen Katharine dancing in her steely gray eyes.

"Okay, I'll go along," said Gippel, "and hope to God we sell some tickets. There'll be more flesh on the stage than in the audience - that's my guess."

Hixie Rice said, "It has great publicity possibilities, with all those high school kids carrying spears."

Junior Goodwinter capitulated. "Count me in, so long as you lop off the last scene."

And so The Famous History of the Life of King Henry the Eighth went into production. Qwilleran was not further involved, although he knew that Carol and Fran were auditioning for Queen Katharine, and Larry and Dennis wanted to read for Cardinal Wolsey. Everyone assumed that Larry would get the choice role.

On the evening following the last audition, Qwilleran was going to a late dinner at the Old Stone Mill as the Lanspeaks were leaving. He intercepted them in the restaurant parking lot, saying to Larry, "I suppose I'm expected to kiss your ring."

"Oh, hell! I missed out on Wolsey," the actor said with a disappointed smirk. "Hilary wants me to play King Henry. Isn't that a bummer? I'll have to grow a beard if I don't want to use spirit gum. Scott should be doing Henry; he wouldn't need any padding."

Carol said, "Scott could never learn the lines. The only line he ever remembers is at the bottom of the page."

"So I suppose Dennis is doing Wolsey?" Qwilleran asked.

"NO!" Larry thundered in disgust. "Hilary's doing it himself! Of course, it's expedient, because he's done it before. He's also bringing a woman from Lockmaster to play Katharine. He directed her in the production down there a few years ago."

"When do rehearsals start? I might drop in some evening."

"Next Monday," Carol said. "Five nights a week, starting at six-thirty. We've always started at seven to give working people time to eat a decent meal, but Horseface has decreed six-thirty. He wants me as assistant director and understudy for Katharine. Since she lives sixty miles away, she'll come up only two nights a week, so I'll have to read her lines the rest of the time." She raised her eyebrows in a gesture of resignation. "I don't expect to enjoy it, but if I learn something, it won't be a total loss."

Qwilleran said, "I wanted to do a profile on VanBrook for my column, but he refused flatly. Wouldn't give a reason."

"Typical," said Larry with a shrug. "Where's Polly tonight?"

"Hosting a dinner meeting of the library board. What did you have to eat?"

"Red snapper - very good! And try the blue plum buckle - if they have any left. It's going fast."

The Lanspeaks went to their car, and Qwilleran entered the restaurant that had been converted from an old stone grist mill. The hostess seated him at his favorite table, and Derek Cuttlebrink filled his water glass and delivered the bread basket with a flourish. Although Derek was the busboy, his six-foot-seven stature and sociable manner caused new customers to mistake him for the owner.

"I'm playing five parts," he announced. "I get my name in the program five times - for Wolsey's servant, the court crier, the executioner, the mayor of London, and a messenger. I like the executioner best; I get to carry the axe and wear a hood."

"You're going to be a busy boy with all those costume changes," Qwilleran said.

"I figure I can wear the same pants and just change the coat and hat."

"In Shakespeare they're called breeches, Derek."

"I've been thinking it over," said the busboy. "I've decided I'd like to be an actor instead of a cop. It would be more fun. You stay up all night and sleep late."

The waitress appeared, and Derek drifted away to clear some tables. Qwilleran ordered the red snapper. "And save me a piece of plum buckle if you have any left."

During the following week the number of cars in the theatre parking lot every evening indicated that rehearsals were in full swing, and one evening Qwilleran slipped into the auditorium to observe, thinking he might pick up some material for a "Qwill Pen" column. It was six- thirty when he took an aisle seat at the rear. The entire cast was on hand, except for the woman from Lockmaster; it was her off-night. The director had not yet made an appearance.

At six forty-five Carol said, "No point in wasting valuable time. Let's go over the scenes that Hilary blocked last night. We'll skip the prologue and start with the first scene as far as the dirty- look episode. Let's have the Duke of Buckingham, the Duke of Norfolk, and Lord Abergavenny on stage. Norfolk enters first, stage left. The others, stage right."

Three actors, carrying scripts and looking far from aristocratic in their rehearsal clothes, made their entrance.

Carol called out from the third row, "Norfolk, take a longer, more deliberate stride. You're a duke!... That's better! And Abergav'ny, show respect for your father-in-law but don't hide behind him. Let's do that entrance again and take it from Good morrow and well met." As the scene progressed, Carol made notes and occasionally interrupted. "Norfolk, don't just look at the speaker, listen to what he's saying. It'll show in your face... And Abergavenny, keep your chin up... Buckingham, take a couple of steps downstage when you say O you go far."

When Dennis reached Buckingham's clever line - No man's pie is freed from his ambitious finger - he stopped, and laughed. "That's my favorite line."

" There was a ripple of amusement as the actors in the front rows looked at each other with understanding.

Carol said, "Okay, take it again. And Norfolk, use your upstage hand so you don't hide your face."

When they reached the dirty-look episode and VanBrook had not yet arrived, Carol read Cardinal Wolsey's lines and walked through the scene with the others. Suddenly the doors at the rear of the auditorium burst open."

"What's going on here?" came the director's stentorian demand. Starting down the aisle in his green turtleneck jersey, he caught sight of Qwilleran. "What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for the six-thirty rehearsal to begin," said Qwilleran with a pointed look at his wristwatch.

"Out! Out!" VanBrook pointed to the door. Dennis Hough walked to the stage apron and boomed, "He can stay, for God's sake! He owns the damned theatre!"

"Out! Out!" Qwilleran obligingly left the auditorium, walked upstairs, and slipped into the dark balcony, while VanBrook proceeded without apology or explanation. Whatever had delayed him had also annoyed him, and he was impatient with everyone.

Brusquely he said, "Archbishop, stop looking at your wristwatch! This is the sixteenth century... You - he Old Lady - we're doing Henry VIII, not Uncle Wiggley! You're carrying your hands like a rabbit... Who's giggling backstage? Keep quiet or go home!... Suffolk, there are four syllables in 'coronation.' It's the crowning of a monarch, not something from the florist." None of this was said in good-natured jest; it was pure acrimony. "Campeius, can you act more like a Roman cardinal and less like a mouse?"

The actors waiting for their scenes glanced at each other uneasily. Eddington Smith, playing Cardinal Campeius, was a shy little old fellow who was always treated gently by members of the club, no matter how inadequate his performance.

When Van Brook told Anne Boleyn to stop simpering like an idiot, the flashing of Fran's steely gray eyes could be seen even from the balcony. As for Dennis, his square jaw was clenched most of the time. At one point Dave Landrum, who was playing Suffolk, threw his script at the director and walked out. Qwilleran doubted that anyone would return for rehearsal the following night. He doubted, moreover, that Henry VIII would ever open.

Nevertheless, the rehearsals stumbled along with a new Suffolk, and Qwilleran received reports on the play's progress from Larry, with whom he had coffee at the Dimsdale Diner twice a week.

Larry, whose royal beard was growing nicely, said, "Hilary's always picking on poor Edd Smith, who wouldn't be in the club at all if Dr. Halifax hadn't ordered it as therapy. Edd still doesn't project, even though Carol coaches him. He shouts the first two words, then trails off into a whisper. Dennis has come to his defense a couple of times. There's a real personality clash flaring up between Dennis and Hilary."

"How is Carol taking it?"

"She's being a saint! She puts up with Hilary because she hopes to learn something. If you ask me, she's learning what not to do while directing a group of amateurs. He works hard with some and ignores others. He butters up the woman from Lockmaster and insults everyone else."

"Is she good?"

"Sure, she's good, but Carol or Fran could have done as well."

"Who is she, anyway?" Qwilleran asked.

"Her name is Fiona Stucker. I don't know anything about her except that she played Katharine in the Lockmaster production of Henry five years ago."

"How are the student extras coming along?"

"Carol is working hard with the kids, getting them to walk like sixteenth- century nobles instead of couch potatoes. I think Derek, with his five roles and great height, is going to provide the comic relief in this play. He's so conspicuous that the audience will recognize him as the executioner even with a black hood over his head. And I'm afraid he's going to get a laugh during Katharine's death scene. When he enters as a messenger toward the end of the play - his fifth role, bear in mind - Katharine's line is This fellow, let me ne'er see again. We all have to struggle to keep a straight face, and the audience is going to crack up!"

"The play can use some comic relief," Qwilleran said.

"Yes, but not during Katharine's death scene."

On opening night the audience made all the right responses. They wept over Buckingham's noble farewell, gasped at the magnificence of the coronation, and suppressed their tittering over Derek's frequent entrances. There was a rumble of excitement during the crowd scenes, when their teenage sons and daughters paraded down the center aisle as guards with halberds, standard bearers with banners, officers with tipstaffs, noblemen with swords, countesses with coronets, and vergers with silver wands.

Onstage there were only two miscues and one fluff - not bad for opening night. Qwilleran, fifth row on the aisle with Polly Duncan as his guest, cheered inwardly when Dennis delivered his poignant speech, cringed when Eddington mouthed words that could not be heard, felt his blood pressure rising when Fran appeared as the beauteous Anne, and waited fearfully for Derek to ruin Katharine's death scene. Fortunately the director had deleted the lines that would get an inappropriate guffaw.

The next time Qwilleran met Larry for coffee, the actor said, "I have to admit that Hilary's good as the cardinal. Despite his built-in arrogance he manages to make Wolsey's repentance convincing. But I have a feeling that he resents the public's adoration of Buckingham. When they flock backstage after the show, it's Dennis they want to see. And when Dennis makes his first entrance and says Good morning and well met, you can hear the hearts palpitating in the auditorium."

Qwilleran said, "Your Henry is perfect, Larry - straight out of the Holbein portrait."

"That's what Hilary wanted." He rubbed his chin. "I'll tell you one thing: I'll be glad when I can shave off this beard."

Three weeks later he had shaved off the beard, VanBrook was dead, and Dennis had disappeared without explanation.